


Sirens In The Dark

by tattooeddevil



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-31
Updated: 2012-08-31
Packaged: 2017-11-13 06:35:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/500554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tattooeddevil/pseuds/tattooeddevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's getting sicker by the hour, but what is causing it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sirens In The Dark

To his right. Gun shot. Loud splash. Grunt. Silence.

In front of him. Something moving. Shoot gun. Shriek. Splash. Silence.

In the water. Dead body. Bright flash. Sinking. Alright then.

“Sam?”

Nothing but silence meets Dean’s ears. His heart rate picks up a little. Sammy’s hurt.

“Sam? Answer me, man!”

Dean makes his way around the lake to where he thinks he heard Sam last. It’s too dark to see anything beyond a few inches in front of his face and he lost his flash light in the water somewhere. He doesn’t see the beam of Sam’s flash light, so he must have lost it too. Tonight is not one of their better nights.

“Sammy? Marco?”

Splashing behind him, he must have passed by Sam in the dark.

“Polo.”

His heart rate calms down to “he’s alive” level. He could still be hurt though.

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

“Marco.”

“Polo.”

Sam’s drenched. Clothes sticking to his skin uncomfortably, hair plastered to his face, cast soaked and useless. No blood though, no cuts, no obvious breaks.

“Are you okay?”

Sam grimaces, but nods.

“Yeah, Just cold and muddy. Fucking... bitch!”

Dean can’t help but snicker, now that he’s sure Sam is fine. Heart rate back to normal.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the motel, Flipper.”

Sam flips him off and starts trudging to the Impala, flash light miraculously still working after his dive. Dean follows behind, still chuckling. He killed the siren that tried to kill Sam and Sam’s fine. It’s a good night after all.

He makes Sam sit on a pile of blankets in he car, although it’s soaked through within minutes. It’s worth it though, it means he gets to see Sam bitch face at him. Sam’s fine. He gives Sam the first shower though, he’s not a total bastard. Today.

Dean listens to the shower being turned on, the pipes groaning and squeaking. He turns on the TV, mindlessly flipping channels until Sam comes out of the bathroom.

“All yours.”

He grunts in reply and hauls himself off the bed. It’s a quick shower, he’s had enough water related activities for a day. He won’t mind if they don’t see any lake or ocean for a few weeks. Hell, months even. Fucking siren.

******

It’s not overly obvious at first. Hell, it isn’t obvious at all. Especially since Dean’s little brother is as stubborn as a mule and refuses to admit he’s not feeling well. For days. It’s Dean that has to say something about it and it takes him at least fifteen pushes until Sam admits he “might be a little off”. No shit, Sherlock.

“A little off? Dude...”

Sam scowls at Dean and interrupts him before he can go on the rant Sam knows is coming.

“I’m fine, Dean. It’s just a headache. Leave it, okay?”

Dean huffs, but the tone of Sam’s voice means business. Not talking about it. Okay then, stubborn ass, let’s see how long you last.

Sam lasts four days. Four days of bags growing under his eyes. Four days of skin getting paler. It takes four days for Sam to break and admit he’s not doing well.

******

When Dean opens the door to the crappy, run-down motel room they’re staying in for this case, he gets hit by the nauseating smell of vomit. He gags through the initial wave and steps back outside to take a few deep breaths of ice cold, fresh air. He squares his shoulders and heads back in.

The smell is almost tangible, like a living, breathing thing in the room. Dean shoves the curtains open and almost throws up again at the sight of the room. There’s puke everywhere. On the sheets on Sam’s bed, on the floor next to Sam’s bed. On the floor in the middle of the room. On the floor and a little against the wall next to the bathroom. It’s like a damn trail to Sam’s hiding spot. Hunched over the toilet.

“Didn’t quite make it, did you?”

Sam groans and lifts his head off the rim of the toilet just enough to glare at Dean.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Dean smirks, but it quickly fades as he takes in the state of the room again, realizing he will be the one to have to clean it all up. With a sigh, he starts opening the door and windows in the place. He’ll take the freezing cold over the smell any day. Better get to it then.

It takes him an hour to clean up all the vomit and air out the room as much as possible. Sam stays with his head buried in the toilet the entire time.

“Hey Sammy, you still puking?”

His only answer is a pained groan.

“I’ll take that as a yes then.”

He grins to himself and plops down on his bed to watch some TV. He expects Sam to crawl right in to bed when he finally gets off the bathroom floor, so he might as well make himself comfortable. They’re staying until Sam gets better.

When Sam finally makes it back to bed, he can’t fall asleep. Miserable as hell is not a good look on Dean’s little brother. He tosses and turns until he gives up with a heavy sigh and just lays there, staring at the ceiling.

“This sucks.”

******

Rustling of sheets. Shuffling of feet. A click, light switch. A soft schnick of a lock. Gagging.

Well, fuck.

Dean started worrying about Sam about five hours into the puking-his-guts-out thing. Five hours of thinking it is just a stomach bug. Or maybe a cold. No biggie, he probably just caught a nasty chest bug from that lake they killed the siren at. The three feet of snow that fell overnight probably didn’t help either. And when the puking stopped - after eight freaking hours of hearing and smelling Sam throwing up and dry heaving - they thought that would be it.

No such luck apparently.

Dean heaves himself out of bed and staggers to the bathroom door.

“Sammy?”

It takes a while for Sam to react, but when he does it’s so soft Dean almost misses it too.

“Help, Dean.”

A spike of fear runs through Dean and he almost breaks down the door. He catches himself though, they need to get the down payment back.

“Open the door for me, Sam.” Now.

It takes what seems like ages for Sam to unlock the door and Dean is in as soon as he hears the soft click. The smell is even worse than before and he has to force down the bile rising in his throat.

“Fucking... What the hell did you eat, Sammy? I hope it tasted better than it smells now. God.”

Sam looks almost grey, the color in his face drained away completely, tear tracks down his cheeks. He doesn’t respond to Dean’s complaining, just sits there. Glassy eyes staring at nothing, his breath coming in fast pants, his head lolling slightly. If that wasn’t enough to sober Dean up and realize the seriousness of the situation, the toilet bowl full of bloody puke is.

“Fuck.”

“No shit.”

Dean snorts at Sam’s exhausted exclamation, but there really isn’t anything funny about this whole thing at all. He should get Sam to a hospital, but they’re pretty much snowed in. A glance out of the tiny bathroom window tells Dean another two feet or so has fallen in the past few hours. And the stubborn ass would refuse to go anyway.

“Shit.”

Dean hesitates a few seconds, trying to gather his thoughts and figure out what to do. Self medicate it is then.

“Okay, Sammy. Think you can get up and get to the bed? I’ll help.”

Sam shakes his head. Dean sighs and kneels next to Sam.

“I’m gonna haul you over there then. No bitching and no cuddling, okay?”

Sam snorts softly, for which Dean is grateful It means Sam’s feeling like shit, but not dying or anything. He counts it as a win. He hooks his arms under Sam’s armpits and hooks his arms around his back. When his hands are able to grab the opposite arm well past the wrist, he startles.

He lets go again and sits back to closely look at Sam. Only now does he realize that Sam’s lost weight. And not just a few pounds either. It’s more like 50 pounds. Sam hasn’t been this skinny since he was 16. Fuck. What the hell happened?

“Sammy?”

Sam’s unfocused, teary eyes settle on his for a moment before drifting away again. Dean sighs, no use in trying to talk to Sam when he’s out of it like this. Bed first, meds second, talk later.

He picks Sam up easier than he thought -He got so fucking thin- and carries him to the small bed. He keeps Sam awake long enough to force down some Tylenol and water and then - finally - lets him sleep. Or pass out, whichever. Dean takes the opportunity to check Sam out from head to toe once Sam’s out cold.

Sam’s ribs stand out sickly through the skin on his chest and Dean wonders again what the hell happened. Sam’s been sick, sure, but skinny like this doesn’t happen in a freaking day.

He suddenly remembers the blood in the toilet bowl. Fuck. Ulcer maybe? He grabs his laptop and searches for ulcer symptoms. Nausea and vomiting, check. Weight loss, check. Although Sam might be overdoing it on that front. Vomiting of blood, check. Abdominal pain, he’s gonna have to ask Sam when he wakes up. For now, Dean’s worries are slightly lessened. He’s 90% sure Sam’s gonna be fine.

Until Sam wakes up.

******

“Fucking... Christ, ow!”

Dean jolts awake at Sam’s sudden outburst. He quickly struggles upright in the chair he obviously fell asleep in to find Sam curled into a ball on his bed, hands clutching his head.

“Sam? Sammy? What’s wrong?”

He puts a hand on Sam’s arm, but Sam flinches away with a pained whine. As if burned, Dean pulls his hand back and gingerly sits down on the bed.

“Sam? Talk to me, man. I don’t know what to do here. Is it a vision?”

Sam’s answer is laced with pain.

“I don’t know... I don’t... Just... Ow...”

Okay. A blinding-headache-that-might-or-might-not-be-a-vision then. Even the voice inside Dean’s head is sarcastic.

“Okay... Anything you need? Anything I can do?”

Sam just crawls further into himself with a pained whimper that sounds to Dean as ‘please close all the blinds and stop making so much noise’. It’s really all he can think of to do. When he’s done, he sits back down next to Sam, who hasn’t moved an inch, but is still letting out those pained little gasps. He doesn’t look like he’s about to hurl, but no way an ulcer would be cured by itself over a night’s sleep.

“Sammy?”

He pitches his voice low to not aggravate Sam further, but Sam still flinches at the sound of his voice. Dean takes it as a sign Sam heard him. And decides whispering is the thing to do now.

“You feel like puking your guts out, like yesterday?”

If he hadn’t been looking at his little brother closely, he would have missed the minute jerk of Sam’s head in denial. Okay, no puking then.

“You want some aspirin?”

Without waiting for an answer, Dean rummages around the room as quietly as possible, grabbing the aspirin and some water for Sam to take. His mind is running wild with questions, mainly focused on what he thought was an ulcer, but suddenly isn’t anymore.

He gets Sam to take the aspirin and it knocks him out almost immediately. Dean gets back behind the laptop. Three hours later, Dean is none the wiser, another feet of snow has fallen and Sam’s headache hasn’t gone down. He’s awake and still whimpering, big glassy tears dribbling down his face from the pain. Dean is slowly but surely starting to freak out. He can’t do jack shit for Sam and he has no idea what’s going on.

Another two hours later and Sam is awake again, this time slightly less pained, judging by how he slowly sits up and squints at Dean.

“What time is it?”

Dean glances at his watch.

“2PM.”

Sam frowns and immediately winces. His head obviously still hurts.

“Have you been watching me this whole time?”

Dean scoffs, but he knows damn well Sam can tell he’s lying. Of course he’s been watching Sam this whole time. It doesn’t make sense, nothing does. Sam should be throwing up, shivering with fever, cramping stomach, the works. Instead, he has a blinding headache that might or might not be connected to Sam’s psychic thing. Not to mention the weight loss. It just doesn’t add up.

“Just take another aspirin and get back to sleep, princess.”

“‘m not a princess.”

“Sure. Princess.”

Sam lobs a pillow at Dean and promptly whines at the stab of pain going through his head with the movement. Dean laughs.

“That’ll teach you.”

How come he doesn’t feel the joke though?

******

Sam sleeps through the day and doesn’t wake up until it’s dark outside and Dean’s twiddling his thumbs with boredom. He’s all out of research options, at least the online ones. He’s called dad. Voicemail. Of course. He’s called Bobby, who not so helpfully advised him to go to a hospital. He’s called Pastor Jim who gave him the same advice. He can’t get to the library, the snow still piling up outside. They royally screwed, in short.

He’s ordered room service, thankful for a slightly classier motel, and it gives him something to do. It’s been hours since either of them ate anything, whatever is happening to Sam enough of a panic to kill both their appetites for a while. Now though, after a few hours of quiet and rest, Dean’s stomach rumbles. As if on cue, Sam wakes up with a startle.

Dean is about to make a witty remark about babies and scary dreams when he notices Sam’s eyes shooting across the room. He’s wide-eyed and he looks terrified.

“Sam?”

Sam’s eyes land on him with a quick jerk. But no, not on him, slightly left of him. Fuck no. Dean jumps up and rushes to Sam.

“Sammy? What’s wrong?”

There’s a thick layer of sweat on Sam’s forehead, beading at his hairline. He’s shivering slightly and his eyes are still flying around the room. Something cold grips Dean’s heart and squeezes. Please don’t let it be...

“Dean? I can’t... I can’t see!”

Fuck.

Okay, okay, think Dean. Think! Firsts things first, calm down Sammy. He grips Sam by the shoulders and pulls him against his chest. One hand against the back of his neck and one hand at the small of his back. Firm.

“Okay Sam, okay. It’s okay. I’m here, feel that? I’m right here.”

Sam nods shakily and clings to Dean, hands fisted in Dean’s shirt. Dean can feel the heat from Sam seep through his shirt. Shit, he must be running a massive fever. What the fuck is he supposed to do?

He holds Sam like that until Sam’s slightly calmed down and able to talk to Dean. Dean extracts himself from Sam enough to inspect his face and eyes.

“Nothing to see, sorry.”

Sam just nods. He looks pale, dejected and just plain sick. But sick from what? Not for the first time in the past few days has Dean wished for anyone, someone to help them. Because now what? Now what is he supposed to do?

“Dean?”

Dean realizes he’s been staring at Sam and forcefully shakes himself from his panic.

“Yeah Sammy?”

Sam doesn’t get past a pained sound in the back of his throat before he doubles over and pukes all over himself, the bed and Dean. He clutches at his head at the same time and promptly passes out. Well, fuck.

A chorus of “shit, shit, shit” runs through his head as Dean extracts himself from the bed and Sam gingerly, trying and failing to keep the vomit on the bed. It drips down on the floor instead and the “shit, shit, shit” turns into “blegh, blegh, blegh” for a second.

Sam’s out cold, but breathing, so Dean figures he’s got a few minutes to clean himself and the bed until Sam wakes up. A few minutes turns out to be an hour, Sam completely unresponsive to any attempts at waking him up. Dean kills the time by panicking and freaking out.

He’s always hated it when things donn’t make sense and things really don’t make sense now. Whatever Sam caught, it’s not something cut and dry. Things just don’t add up. The vomiting, the head aches, the fever, the blindness. It’s a big pile of individual symptoms and nothing to go on.

He calls Dad again. No answer, of course. He leaves a snide voicemail message and feels absolutely nothing better afterwards. He calls Pastor Jim, who has nothing but prayers for them. There’s no such thing as a God though, so he thanks Pastor Jim politely and hangs up with a scowl. Bobby is last on the phone list.

“I can’t just sit here and nothing, Bobby! I gotta do something.”

“Like what, son? You can’t go out, it’s not safe. Sam’s better off with you there, helping him.”

Dean sighs. Bobby’s right, he knows that, but the panic is tight in his stomach and all he wants right now is for Sammy to wake up and be okay.

“I can’t Bobby! I just... There’s gotta be something I can do! This isn’t just some normal bug or ulcer or what the fuck ever! This is hospital-weird!”

He can practically hear Bobby thinking on the other end of the line.

“Alright. How did he catch whatever it is he caught?”

“I don’t know exactly, but we think he caught something from that lake job we did last week.”

“Lake job?”

Dean scrubs a hand over his face at the thought of that dreadful siren and the freezing cold.

“Yeah. Siren. Caught it though, but not without Sam getting dunked. I think he caught it then.”

Silence. Pages flipping. Glass shattering. Bobby cursing.

“Bobby?”

“I’ll call you back.”

******

Sam wakes up before Bobby calls back and it doesn’t look good. He wakes with a pitiful moan that sounds suspiciously like ‘Dean’ and immediately curls in on himself. Dean hurries to get Sam some Tylenol and aspirin, consequences of taking the two drugs at the same time be damned.

Sam’s shivering violently and he feels hot to the touch. He still has a head ache, he is still nauseous and he still can’t see. To top it all off, after ten minutes of being miserably awake, Sam starts cramping up.

Sam’s muscles lock up one by one, sometimes for minutes on end. It starts with his legs and arms, but soon his entire body is stiffening with painful cramps. Dean knows Sam’s stomach cramps violently, because Sam bites back a scream and wraps his arms around his abdomen. He knows Sam’s neck cramps, because he clamps both hands around it in an attempt to stop the pain. Dean knows, but he can’t do anything.

Half an hour in, Sam starts vomiting again. Nothing but bile and water. Lots and lots of water. It’s dirty water, brown and smelly. His first clue about what’s going on is the piece of weed in the water from Sam’s stomach. Weed like from a lake. Just as he’s about to call Bobby, his phone rings. They must be psychic.

“It’s the siren!”

Dean almost laughs at their combined exclamation.

“Yeah, I finally figured it out too. Sam’s throwing up weeds now, like the ones you would find at a lake. What do we do?”

“How’s Sam? He’s our biggest clue right now. He breathing okay?”

Dean sits down beside Sam, who is hunched over the trashcan, still throwing up gulps of brown, filthy lake water. Dean rubs his back slowly, feeling the ribs under his fingertips.

“His breathing is okay. God, Bobby, he’s so skinny it’s scary. He lost something like 50 pounds in a day. Does that mean anything?”

Bobby grunts an affirmation and Dean hears him flipping through some books.

“So, vomiting, weight loss, lake water. Fever? Head ache?”

‘Yes to both. Yesterday. Or, the day before... I don’t really remember, it’s all starting to blur together. God, Bobby, what do I do?”

“Okay son, hang on. Blindness set in a few ours ago, yeah?”

“Yeah, I’d say about two hours ago?”

Bobby murmurs some more, leaving Dean to wait impatiently, still rubbing a puking Sam’s back. At least they know what the hell is going on, now for how to stop it.

“Bobby?”

“Yeah kid, hang on. Just reading through this... Okay, listen to this. Sirens lure men in with their song and then capture them. They don’t kill them immediately, but drain the life from them. Symptoms are vomiting, excessive weight loss, blinding head aches, blindness, a fever, cramps and seizures until the man’s body gives out and dies. The siren then eats the man to gain his soul. Any of this ring a bell?”

Dread sets in Dean’s stomach at Bobby’s words. Death? No, he won’t let it happen. No!

“Fuck, Bobby. What are we gonna do?”

Silence. Sam throws up again with a pitiful moan.

“Dean, I can’t... I can’t do this... Please...”

He shifts his attention to Sam and just about catches him before he face plants to the floor. Instead, he hauls Sam against his side and shoves the trashcan under his face and just holds him tight. The heat from Sam’s body is scorching even through the layers of clothing between them.

“Bobby, we need to so something. Now. Sam’s looking like death warmed over already and he’s running a fever so high I’m getting delirious.”

“First things first. Has the snow let up yet?”

Dean glances out the window, just able to see the melting snow on the ground. A wave of relief washes over him at the sight.

“Yeah, thank fuck, yeah. Hospital it is.”

“No. Get back to that lake and kill the siren. A hospital won’t be able to do anything for Sam. The siren left her mark on Sam somehow and it will only lift is she’s killed.”

Dean frowns into the phone.

“We did kill her.”

“Did you actually see the dead body? It would have shrivelled and then turned to water.”

Fuck.

“No. Shit. There was a flash of something and then I heard something sinking. I figured she was dead and I couldn’t find Sam and it was dark as hell and...”

Bobby interrupts Dean’s panicked ramble.

“No time to wallow in what went wrong, Dean. Get Sam and get back to that lake. He’ll be able to lure her out so you can kill her. It says here sirens poison their mates with a virus until he dies. The virus lifts when the siren is killed. That should cure Sam. Just... be quick, okay Dean?”

“Yeah, thanks Bobby. I’ll call when it’s done.”

Dean hangs up and thanks his lucky stars they didn’t get far from the lake due to the heavy snow fall. For once, the snow is actually useful. It’s about a four hour drive and he will get Sam there, even though he has no clue how right now.

Sam’s still hunched over the trash can, though the puking has stopped for the time being. He looks pathetic though and Dean feels bad for making him move and ride in the car, but he’ll be damned if he lets Sam go like this.

He rubs Sam’s back a little, pitching his voice low to explain what they’re gonna have to do to help Sam.

“I’m really sorry, Sammy, but we’re gonna have to go back to that lake, dude. We probably didn’t kill the siren and that’s what making you sick. Think you can change and get in the car?”

Sam groans, but nods his head at the same time.

“Good. Need help?”

Another nod. Dean empties the trash can in the shower stall and hands it back to Sam.

“Just let me know when you’re gonna hurl so I can get out of the way, yeah?”

Sam snorts softly, but nods again. Dean takes it as a sign he’s okay to move around a bit and get changed. Dean helps him remove his shirt and pants and pull on clean clothes and his boots. It’s slow going, but Sam manages to get through it without puking at all. Sheer will, because he’s curled around the trash can as soon as he’s dressed and ready to go.

Dean quickly packs everything into their duffel bags and the impala. He leaves Sam for last, hurriedly cleaning a path from the door of the motel room to the car. Last thing they need is Sam slipping on the slippery pavement and breaking something. Like his neck.

******

It takes them an hour, but then they’re on their way, the impala solid on the wet, slippery road. Sam’s fallen asleep in the backseat, thankfully, courtesy of - probably - a little too much Tylenol, and the hum of the engine is lulling Dean’s mind into a false sense of safety. He knows he’s silently freaking out, but the care for Sam is keeping the full blown panic at the back of his mind. He can’t give in to the blinding panic lodged in his chest. Not yet.

He can, however, give in to the guilt and anger towards himself. If only he had stopped to make sure the siren was dead. If only he hadn’t lost his flash light. If only he hadn’t lost Sam in the dark. If only he’d paid more attention to Sam being sick. If only he took Sam’s illness more serious. If only, if only, if only. He really screwed this one up.

It’s his job to take care of Sam, his dad never let a moment pass by without reminding him. ”Take care of Sammy, Dean.” “Yes Dad.” And now Sam was dying and it was all his fault. He hadn’t taken care of Sammy and now he was dying. Fuck!

He steals glances at Sam through the rear view mirror, but the road is still slippery and he needs most of his concentration to keep the car on the road and not have them end up in a ditch. That would be bad. Like, epically bad. But he can’t take his eyes off Sam either, worried and scared and afraid he’ll just stop breathing and he’ll loose Sam for good.

The mantra of “if only, if only, if only” keeps running through his mind and Dean knows it won’t stop until they gank the bitch that did this to Sam and cure Sam. They have to cure Sam.

“Dean?”

Dean meets Sam’s eyes through the rear view mirror and offers an encouraging smile. Sam looks like shit though, and not at all like he’s paying attention to Dean. Instead, he’s rubbing at his temples, a frown between his eye brows. Head ache.

“Where are we?”

“About fifteen minutes away. How’re you fee-”

He sees Sam’s face drain of all color and immediately swerves the car to the shoulder of the road. Sam scrambles to get the door open and sticks his head out just in time for the dirty water to hit the pavement instead of the upholstery. He heaves through what seems like gallons and gallons of muggy lake water before his body sags forward and Dean has to grab him by the back of his shirt to haul him back in.

“Okay, Sammy?”

Sam slumps face down on the backseat with a groan, but he nods.

“Yeah. Better. Hurry though.”

Dean takes a few seconds to steady himself before driving off again. He can’t get the stark white color of Sam’s face and the tear streaks out of his mind. The dark brown water coming from his brother’s stomach, the blinding headache he knows Sam has.

With every mile they get closer to the lake, things seem to get worse. Sam starts to look sicker, paler, thinner. He seems to be throwing up non-stop and they have to empty the bucket every two miles or so. The headache has intensified, his eyes now starting to burn too. And when they finally pull into the national park the lake is situated in, Sam goes rigid and convulses.

Dean holds him through it, until Sam’s muscles go lax. Sam’s out, but that’s maybe for the best right now. This way, he’s not in pain or discomfort. Dean debates leaving him in the car and going off to kill the siren alone, but his guilty conscience immediately puts a stop to that. No way is he not going to be with Sam when he wakes up. Or worse, when he dies.

Stop it, Dean, he’s not going to die.

Dean hauls Sam up in his arms and trudges to the edge of the lake. He lays Sam down and when he’s sitting himself, pulls Sam into his lap, chest to back, Sam’s head on his shoulder. He uses the flashlight to search the surface of the lake and hopefully lure the siren out. He’s got his shotgun in his other hand, loaded and ready to go.

******

Nothing happens. Nothing. The lake is still, quiet. Too quiet. It’s the only reason Dean hasn’t packed up and left yet. Nature is never this quiet. No sounds of animals in the forest, no birds or crickets, nothing. It’s unnatural.

He’s called Bobby to confirm a gunshot through the heart should kill the siren. He’s called dad - again - to update him on what’s going on and - again - ask for help. He’s called Pastor Jim just to have someone to talk to a little. Sam’s still out cold, seizing every ten minutes or so and it’s taking everything Dean has to not break down screaming.

What the fuck is he supposed to do?

Three hours in, there’s no sign of the siren and Dean is no closer to saving Sam. It’s cold and damp and Dean hasn’t gotten a good night’s sleep in what seems like years. Sam hasn’t had a seizure in a few minutes and everything else is quiet. Dean blames all of this combined to him nodding off, Sam warm against his chest, his shotgun clutched in his hand.

He dreams of voices, female voices. A song maybe. It’s not something he’s heard before but it’s beautiful. Soft, high notes interchanged with lower, seductive tones. His vision turns white and then there’s his mother. She’s singing to him, smiling that gorgeous smile he remembers, and misses. She holds her arms out to him and he envelopes her in his own. Mom.

It’s warm, it’s soothing and he never wants to leave. He kicks the hand trying to grab his ankle away and settles back in his Mom’s embrace. Wait...

Dean opens his eyes just in time to see Sam’s hollow eyes staring at him, his bony arms outstretched, fingers clawing for Dean. Yellow eyes pierce the darkness behind Sam, the song from Dean’s dream still going in the real world and Dean finally realizes what the hell is going on.

The siren drags Sam to the lake by his ankle, all the while singing her song to lure Sam in willingly. But Sam is struggling against her tight hold and Dean’s hand finds the shotgun that slipped from his hand while he slept. He yells for Sam to duck his head, causing the siren to glance up and sneer at Dean. She narrows her eyes and lunges for Dean, but Dean’s faster and the bullet goes through her heart faster then she can comprehend.

Dean keeps his eyes on the siren, waiting for her to dissolve into water like Bobby said she should. But half his brain is always on Sam. Sam, who is currently trying to drag himself out of the lake. Again.

“You okay, Sammy?”

Sam grimaces, but nods.

“Yeah, Just cold and muddy. Again. Fucking... bitch!”

Dean doesn’t dare look away from the siren until her eyes dim out and her body shrivels and turns to water. He sees it this time, with his own two eyes. The siren is dead, for real this time. He checks the surface with his flash light, but the water is clean and clear. No siren.

He turns back to Sam, who’s struggling to get to his feet. Dean’s panic leaves him with a deep sigh and he trudges over to Sam to help him up.

“Come on, let’s get you back to the motel, Flipper.”

********** END


End file.
